


Write (Out of Time)

by ElloPoppet



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr-centric, Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, Epistolary, F/M, Fanart, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: When Aaron lifts Alexander Hamilton’s green silk jacket into the air, papers slip out from within and fall to the floor. They scatter; he steps back, confusion building. He shakes the jacket and watches as more trifolded pages flutter to the ground, landing atop the others. Perplexed, Aaron sets the jacket aside, on the seat of the nearest chair, and picks up the page nearest his foot. Unfolds it.It's a letter.*Chapter Two Added: Fanart!*
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr/Theodosia Prevost Burr (past), Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler (past), Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens (past) (mentioned)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We all defend the role we play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465948) by [holograms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms). 



> I read "We all defend the role we play" by holograms and became fixated on imagining a post-canon Hamilton/Burr "reunion." This is the result. Also, go read that fic. Shoo.
> 
> This is based completely on Miranda's canon/characters, with historical context littered throughout. Everything subjective is, of course, fictional, but I did try to shove a decent amount of historical fact into this story as well.
> 
> I am really, really hoping y'all enjoy!
> 
> *12/20/20 update: Additional chapter added to showcase lovely art by my lovely friend, kemmastan ♥
> 
> -EP

**July 20, 1804**

When he opens the door, Aaron is met with the sight of long, dark hair resting over the shoulders of a black cloak. Mourning, of course, the color and cut of the garb appropriate. She’s nearly to the end of the street already, walking briskly, and it’s evident that her head is held high, even though he can only see her from behind. 

Aaron considers calling out to her, but Elizabeth Hamilton’s name dies on his lips. Best to let her turn the corner and disappear; she would have stayed had she wanted to see him, and he can’t think of a reason why she would want to do that. He remains quiet as he bends to lift the cloth-wrapped bundle that she’d left on his stoop before knocking and fleeing.

He runs his fingers over the smooth green silk of the thing; it’s lumpy and held together with fraying twine, tied into a bow at the top and presented as a gift. 

Aaron brings the parcel inside and lays it on his desk as gently as he would a lit grenade. He waits. Stares, and waits, as though it will explode as a grenade would. He doesn’t trust a gift from the woman he’s widowed.

Nothing happens. Aaron bites the inside of his cheek, knows he’s being foolish. 

The bowknot slips apart easily when he tugs one of the frayed ends, and the emerald green silk unfurls and expands, not completely, but enough. Aaron’s breath hitches and he freezes, stills in place, shock blooming cold from the pit of his stomach outward. He holds his breath, afraid, fearful that the perfume of long-burning candles and ink would fill his senses. 

He gasps on the inhale, lungs burning in spite of his bone-deep chill, and whether it’s imaginary or real, it’s there, just as he’d feared: the olfactory memory, springing from the garment lying mockingly on his desk. Aaron decides in a frenzied moment that he’ll burn it, this taunting gift, and it’s easy then to lunge forward and sink his fingers into the rippling fabric. 

When Aaron lifts Alexander Hamilton’s green silk jacket into the air, papers slip out from within and fall to the floor. They scatter; he steps back, confusion building. He shakes the jacket and watches as more trifolded pages flutter to the ground, landing atop the others. Perplexed, Aaron sets the jacket aside, on the seat of the nearest chair, and picks up the page nearest his foot. Unfolds it.

Loops, scratches, swirls. Ink splotches in the lowest curve of every ‘s’, long, drawn out crossbars on every ‘t’. Aaron would know this handwriting from paces away; his hand shakes.

It’s a letter. Date marked _December 2, 1780_. Addressed to “Mr. Burr —”.

He picks up another. 

_January 26, 1777_. “Mr. Burr, Sir —”.

Another.

 _July 10, 1804_. “My Dearest Aaron —”. 

His vision is hazy and his hands tremble with such severity that it takes a quarter of an hour, but Aaron compiles the letters — his letters, letters from Alexander — and puts them in chronological order. He thinks of pouring himself a drink. 

Instead, he sits there on the bare wood of the floor and begins to read. 

*

_January 3, 1776_

Mr. Aaron Burr, Sir —

I write when I cannot contain myself. Sir, I cannot contain myself! 

I do not know why I’ve chosen to pen this letter to you, or if it will make its way to you in the end, but it is your smiling face and your reserved eyes in my mind and so you are the unwitting victim to my overflow of joy! Joy, and perhaps frustration, as when I think of you and your advice, I grow only more perplexed. Talking less, I fear, will not come easy. It may in fact be an impossible endeavor, Mr. Burr, and I find myself giving up before making an effort. I am hopeful you won’t judge me too harshly. I would like to keep you, my first friend!

Even moving my quill to etch that word onto paper brings me immeasurable delight. Friends, Sir, and I dare to name you among them. Mulligan, in all of his kindness, hidden beneath layers of brashness, has offered me a spare cot to use for sleep. My world’s belongings fit beneath it, I fit atop it, and Laurens and Lafayette, they’ve visited each day since our fateful meeting at the tavern. I’ve everything I require, or I will once I follow in your footsteps and dominate my education! 

I’ve seen the others, but not you yet. I realize it has only been two nights, Mr. Burr, Sir, however it has been mentioned to me that I get overexcited. 

Until we meet again, my friend!

Yours,

Alexander Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_January 26, 1777_

Mr. Burr, Sir —

We’ve met again, and I wish I could lay a finger on the thrum of animosity that I could feel rolling off of you, directed toward me, finding a home in my chest, waves crashing to a shore that has not bidden them welcome. I do not welcome your animosity, Burr, I detest it and I do not understand it. How have I earned it? Does wielding my words and speaking my mind make me unworthy of your consideration?

I did not expect to find you speaking with Washington. I did not expect his easy dismissal of you. You’ve not let me close enough for me to decide whether or not you earned that, from him. For what it is worth, if anything to you, I would have liked for you to have stayed. Though your seeming animus toward me pierced and puzzled me deeply, the sight of you brought with it a balm.

I do hope our next meeting sees us faring better, Sir.

Yours,

Alexander Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_December 2, 1780_

Mr. Burr —

It is surely drink speaking, for I have had many this night, but who was to know what a dancer you are! There were many shining stars at the ball tonight, Sir, and you were certainly one of them, shining in your military blues, lights gleaming on your cacao skin, moving so carefree, _carefree_ , Aaron!

I’ve just spent an hour penning a letter to a woman, a Schuyler, can you believe it? Yet my addled mind would not let me rest, I knew it would not until I captured this moment, this memory, on paper, of Aaron Burr’s captivating beauty. 

Talk more. Smile more. Dance more. Dance, with me. One day.

Yours, drunkenly!

Alex Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_December 25, 1780_

Lieutenant Colonel Burr — 

What a title you have, Burr! It flows from the tongue, important and commanding respect, and isn’t that just fitting? Though a hard and well earned title, I can only hope that you are resting your rank on this early morning. 

Did you used to take part in festivities on this day? Or do you still? I have seen but a few Christmas trees decorated here and there since arriving on the mainland, less every year as the Revolution rages onward. Not many who wish to carry on with English traditions, I gather. I mourn the loss of the pageantry. Melancholy, most likely. Colors and energy that remind me of home. 

I cannot recall if I thanked you for your congratulations on my marriage to Eliza. I like to think I would not be so rude not to, however, we have both been subject to my scattered mind at times, you and I! Since last met, I’ve thought often of your paramour; I imagine it unlikely that you are resting this morning alongside your beloved. Are you lonely? It pains me to imagine that you are. I do not wish it on you.

I think of how beautiful she must be. How strong, to have captured your attention. Is she quiet, like you? Did you have to tell her to smile more? Or was she fit for you immediately, no instruction or alterations needed?

Do you ever wonder, Burr, what you would change if you could change yourself? It has been keeping me awake nights, that question. As well as the matter of pondering what it is that you would change about me, if given the opportunity. 

Yours,

A. Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_July 9, 1783_

Mr. Burr —

It is incredible how fatherhood changes you, is it not?

I see it in every piece of you, every single morning since Theodosia was born. The circles of exhaustion beneath your eyes are growing deeper (do you understand now? Will your endless taunting of my own now cease?) and yet you become more relaxed as the days go on. You’ve stopped sniping at me when I cross into your office from mine, Aaron, have you noticed? I believe the sniping has all been a thinly veiled attempt to uphold tradition as of late, but it has been nice to be greeted with a smile nonetheless. Never has it been so enjoyable, working next door to you, than it has over these last weeks, since your daughter has come into the world.

In that way, she is a gift to me as well!

I congratulated you immediately, of course, the morning you came back to work. You accepted your gift of cigars with gratitude, as I did when you gifted me spirits when Philip was born last year. I am spurred to congratulate you here as well, within the privacy of a letter that I know will remain only mine, for here I am able to convey my gratitude for every subtle change without fear of question or judgment. To your person, I cannot say that I am grateful for the birth of your daughter because now, you allow me to bring you tea without feigned complaint. Now, you allow me to perch at your office door to share advice worthy of a new father. I talk more, and you listen, you soak up my words and I’m reeling with the look in your eyes as you do so. 

The heat of your body when you gripped me in an embrace before leaving this evening will keep me warm for an eternity, Aaron, an ember that has struggled to burn since Laurens’ death. My eyes sting and brim, putting his name in a letter addressed to you; however, it reminds me once more that you never pitied me when he died. You shared with me your condolences in such a way that led me to believe you understood, and yet I was not shunned. 

You’ve been strides away from me for so long, my friend. Now, I feel as though I’ve pulled you into my orbit, but at an arm’s length. It is a heady feeling. It is never enough. It will have to be.

Yours,

A. Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_June 19, 1787_

Mr. Burr — 

I’m compelled to note that I’m imagining you at this moment, sitting primly wherever you may be, laughing because someone has informed you of my actions yesterday. You would undoubtedly call speaking passionately about something I believe in for six hours an “antic,” whereas I would argue it was a moving performance, Mr. Burr, Sir! After all, it is not every day one has the floor at the Constitutional Convention. 

I wish, more than anything, that you were here with me, my friend, even if only to fight me from the other side of the aisle. I would welcome the cut of your wicked mind. I miss you.

Yours, 

A. Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_January 2, 1792_

Senator Burr — 

I’ve not felt like myself over this last half-year. It is an unshakeable thing, the knowledge that I’ve made choices that lead to swift self-judgment immediately after I act on them. And yet I continue down a self-destructive path with only myself to blame, though even in my own mind and heart I try to fling the blame toward others. 

I try to blame Adams for being inept at his job. Jefferson for being a daily — nay, hourly! — bane of my existence. I try to blame the stress of our own tumultuous push-and-pull, give-and-take. Blame, blame, blame, but wouldn’t that make me a coward, the very kind that I have accused you yourself of being?

I spend nights alone or with another warming my bed, swept up in the ache of longing to have your sharp angles, rather than soft curves, beneath my fingers, and so I determinedly turn my thoughts to the flare of betrayal and anger that churned my gut when you wrenched the senate seat away from my Father-in-Law. Surely, I attempt to convince myself time and again, I can override desire with hatred.

I conjure a pitiful flame of fury and it dies as quickly as it comes when I realize, when every time I realize, that I would have done the same. I try so hard to villainize you, Aaron; it would be so much easier than this.

Yours, 

Alexander 

* * *

  
  


_August 5, 1797_

Aaron — 

I know you think me a fool. A cretin, an imbecile, a man who doesn’t know when or how to quit, who doesn’t know what he has, who only knows how to throw it away in droves. You would, just like many others, and you are wont to do so from the moral high ground on which you stand! It was the right thing to do for so many reasons, in so many ways. I stood too long for being extorted by them, the Reynoldses, and as you so eloquently stated years ago, we both know what we know. And now everyone knows, and of my own volition. Jefferson, Madison, you— none of you have this to hang over me, not any longer. I’d rather stand and place the noose of shame around my own neck than have another tie the knot for me. 

The hardest parts came before handing over the Observations to the masses, you must understand. The hardest part? Watching my darling Eliza crumple with hurt and unimaginable rage as she read my hastily written initial draft, her eyes the first to see what the public would soon be throwing into her face and mine. The hardest part? Came years ago when I handed James Reynolds’ letter to you, heard you read his words aloud, watched your features distort when you realized that your friend was a fallen man.

The hardest part will never be public scrutiny. It will always be the knowledge that I have failed the ones I revere, and that I have done so in such horrendous ways.

It is not an excuse, my humiliation and shame, for not having made myself more available to you when your sweet Theodosia was laid to rest not three years ago. It is a thorn in my side that all I offered to you were words from the mouth of a man whose value to you seems to shift day to day, and a standing invitation into my home which you never took advantage of. I did not know what else to do, did not know how to possibly anchor you. You looked at me as though it was not my place, to mourn her loss with you, for you. 

She was a strong, fierce woman, and even as a castaway who burns for you, I had never been able to find it in me to wish her ill. I was always exceedingly pleased that you had love in your life, and I crave to speak honestly with you regarding just how sorrowful I am that your Theodosia is no longer. 

Though you remain unaware and blind to it, my affection for you is ever-present and unceasing. It cannot make up for what you have lost; however, though selfish as it may be, I have come to realize that its unwavering strength helps keep me full, even when everything else around me is rapidly disappearing. 

It is times like these, Aaron, when I wonder if I shouldn’t simply take the risk I have wanted to take since the first time I saw your smile, bright as any sun on the clearest of days.

Yours,

Alexander 

* * *

  
  


_April 2, 1800_

Dear Aaron (Courtroom Prodigy!)—

We did it, my friend, my partner, my brilliantly maddening co-council! I cast aside the stunning tide of frustration at your gall (you dared to upstage me and leave me empty-handed at closing? You are forever and always a scoundrel, Aaron!) in order to bask in the afterglow of celebration! I write this in the small hours of morning, just as the sun is beginning to stretch its arms above the horizon. Only moments ago did you depart, having brought me to my doorstep, and though I hold with me no doubts that you can carry yourself home safely I cannot help but grin as I imagine a stumble and sway in your step. 

We have the same spirits on our breath tonight, Mr. Burr, Sir! It’s been ages, years, a span of time so long since we’ve enjoyed such joy and pleasure in one another’s company. My body is alight in every place your hand found purchase as we drank and walked the streets and Aaron! You sang with me under constellations and oh, but the brightest stars were in your eyes and within the corners of your smile! You gazed upon me in such a way to make me feel nineteen again, untainted by war and political positionings. 

Could you feel the shifting of the tide within my stomach, or hear the unburderning brought about by your company in my laughter? What happiness, what jubilation to have you pliant and unwound, letting loose your words and never will I reveal this to you in a sober state, but you let slip an opinion, or perhaps even three! You will deny this until the sun ceases to rise but these are my gifts, mine to keep. These are our moments, mine to cherish. 

We stood defense for the first murder trial in these United States, and we fucking won!

Yours,

Alexander 

* * *

_  
  
March 5, 1801 _

Dear Aaron — 

I used to fantasize of this day. Daydreams of young men, fools with amorous intentions and high hopes for those closest to them. In my mind, there never existed a reality in which I would not be celebrating by your side on the day you were sworn in as Vice President of our United States. I should be by you, near you. I am not without enough sanity to know that I would not be allowed to lavish you with pride in the way that I would desire. My preference would be to whisper praises against your skin, emit your name like a prayer into the hollow of your throat until the sun completed its nightly ritual. I would settle for once more buying you an ale and tumbling into the streets, silly with drink.

Not knowing if you will ever speak to me again feels akin to being plunged back into the center of a hurricane. Knowing that you seethe toward me on a level so personal due to my fulfillment of political duty confounds me, Burr. Can you not separate us? Vice President Burr and Treasury Secretary Hamilton from Aaron and Alex? Please, I beg of you, can there be a time, would you allow for a time, for us to exist together simply as Aaron and Alex?

I was choiceless. There was no option for me; I had to back Jefferson. If this had been a personal decision, you must know it would have been you. You know my feelings toward Jefferson. For my country, I had to stand behind a stance; I cannot back a horse in the shadows, Aaron. 

You continue to stand for nothing. 

Even when I try to stand against you, all I do is fall. 

Yours,

Alexander

* * *

  
  


When your daughter died in ’88 I told you I was sorry, that my heart was with you in your time of loss. I thought I meant it. I thought I hurt for you, my heart splitting wide when I looked at any of my four children and thought of your blank face and empty eyes. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry.

Philip — and I’ve sat here for untold minutes gazing at his name written upon this page, the first time I’ve drawn it into being since his own being ceased — 

Philip’s loss weighs on me heavy and fresh and suffocating and cold as endless layers of packed, wet snow. Has he been gone a moment, is his blood still on my hands? Or has it truly been weeks, have I scrubbed away enough of my skin to be left unsullied? I can’t look at my hands, Aaron. I didn’t use them to stop it from happening, I couldn’t use them to keep his life from spilling out of his body. My boy, Aaron. 

How have you lived all of this time without your child? How do I do this? How can I?

* * *

  
  


_June 7, 1804_

Mister Burr —

Must you wonder why it is easy for vitriol to be pulled from me, regarding you? You accuse me of being responsible for the loss of your possible governorship, but Aaron, you assume I wield more sway than I could possibly have! This is not 1800, dammit, though I see that you’ve continued to refuse to grow, to change, to step a toe out of line into the realm of sincerity. Things are not the same as they once were. I am not the same as I once was, and in terms of wrenching pain, second only to the death of my son has been your willingness to continuously cast me in the role of your suppressor.

And now, this? A duel. You ask of me to stand across from you and aim a weapon, make a choice to place myself in position to harm you, knowing that I cannot refuse. You, my first friend, my enemy? What have I done, truly, to earn this? All I’ve done is love you, Aaron, while refusing to budge my political truths in spite of just that. Is it any wonder that my words have turned biting? You try to put me in a public vice, and I can hardly breathe with your easy willingness to do so. 

Love has started to blend with hatred, its brethren, the dark without which the light could not exist. Me without you. You without me. Fuck you, Aaron Burr.

With wholehearted sincerity,

Alexander Hamilton

* * *

  
  


_July 10, 1804_

My Dearest Aaron — 

Tomorrow at dawn, I will row with Pendleton and Hosack across the Hudson to stand on the ground where my son took a mortal bullet for my honor. 

You’ll be there. Pistol in hand. I can only imagine my palms will be slick with sweat, my grip unsteady. It matters none; it is not throwing away my shot if I intend to aim for the trunk of a tree, or the ground, or the sky above. My bullet is not wasted if it remains at rest within its chamber. 

How did we get here? From the pull of nerves and excitement when I first laid my eyes on you nearly thirty years ago to here, this moment, preparing to gaze at you while listening to a count of what could well be our final moments together.

I don’t know how we reached this ugly place, you and I. I imagine it is fate interwoven with the mistakes of mortal men, hungry for power and other things outside our reach. I know only three things for certain, my confounding Aaron Burr.

I will be there for our duel as planned, because you asked it of me.

I will not harm you. I will do near anything you ask of me with the exception of being the cause for the stars in your eyes dulling to nothing.

If I am to hear my last moments counted, they will not be wasted moments. They will be seconds spent gazing upon you, my love, and you are beautiful. 

Love always,

Alex

*

**July 20, 1804**

Aaron isn’t sleeping. He hasn’t slept. It’s approaching midnight, and he’s aware that he’s not moved from this spot on the floor for hours. It’s irrational, his fear of shattering, but it exists nonetheless. 

Aaron has been through war, yet he’s never felt as broken as he does now. He’s hollow, all of his energy having bled from his body in the form of tears blinked from disbelieving eyes. 

It can’t be. _It can’t._

Any doubt as to why Elizabeth left these letters on Aaron’s stoop has vanished. He doesn’t want this knowledge; the burden of knowing what he’s done had been nearly enough to eviscerate him before this. And now? Elizabeth would have been kinder to kill him. 

She'd gift-wrapped and laid to rest at Aaron's feet thirteen cutting and irrevocable proofs of culpability. Aaron hates her for it. He wants to thank her. He knows now why Alexander loved her. 

He will never understand why Alexander loved him. 

**July 21, 1804**

Aaron packs two suitcases. The smaller one is mostly taken up by Alexander’s jacket and other reminders of Aaron’s past; letters from Theodosia, pictures drawn by his children, scraps from the Revolution. He keeps Alexander’s letters folded and tucked against his breast within the inside pocket of his coat. 

Samuel and Peter don’t knock on the door when they arrive shortly before midnight. Aaron takes one final glance around his home.

He flees.

**July 11, 1805**

Aaron holds no power. He is penniless, officeless, and stripped of all that he spent his life working for. Some of his power was given away voluntarily, the rest taken from him. 

He’d taken Alexander’s life, and he was paying for it. 

It bothers him on some days more than others. Tonight is one of the nights in which the air feels thick, hot and soupy enough to cling to Aaron’s skin and leave a layer of slick even though the sun slipped beneath the horizon hours ago. A Tennessee night in July. 

A year to the day since he’d buried a bullet in Alexander’s body. Alexander. The man who’d loved him.

Aaron lays awake, uncomfortable and overheated beneath a thin sheet on a cot in his rented room in the back of the cheapest inn the city has to offer. He’s awake with his eyes closed, and Alexander’s letters sit on his chest, well-read. Loathed. Revered.

Aaron knows what he’s going to do as soon as this day turns into the next; he’s simply lying in wait. The idea has been rolling in his mind for months, and there’s a symbolism to the timing. Tonight is the night. Alex would relish in the poetic rightness, he thinks. 

Aaron gingerly picks up Alexander’s letters from his chest and folds them. He stands and drops the letters atop his clothes in his open suitcase and rifles for a moment until he finds everything he’s looking for. The room is small and cramped, but he makes do by balling himself onto one corner of the cot. He smoothes a blank piece of paper over the cover of a Bible that had been resting on the cot when he’d come in. He’d prefer a desk, but Aaron is a beggar now, and choices are limited. 

He knows that his penmanship will be made bumpy, sloppy due to the soft ridges of the holy book. He knows that it doesn’t matter.

Aaron dips his quill in the small jar of ink precariously balanced beside him on the cot and hesitates for a moment before putting the tip to paper. 

He begins his first in a series of letters to Alexander at 12:01 am, July 12th, 1805. 

*

_July 12, 1805_

Alexander, 

I struggle with words. I realize this may come as a shock to you. Take all of the time that you may need to process.

It is quite ridiculous, the amount of time that I have spent laboring over the decision to respond to letters from a dead man. I fear your judgment still, and isn’t that something? I have been reading your letters and thinking of how I will never be able to craft prose such as yours, and so why bother? And I laugh now, because why bother, indeed?

I have been travelling. I say that, but what I mean is that I have been running. What else am I to do when I have been charged as a murderer, yet will never stand trial? It is not, then, justice that I am running from. And I cannot escape you, even in death. I will sort it as I go. 

Tennessee is a different kind of hot than New York or Virginia. The heat is wet here, the kind of wet that would have that hair of yours frizzing every which way.

Ah. Perhaps this is why I am to bother with taking on the endeavor of writing to you, Alexander. The picture in my mind, clear as day, of your untidied hair in humidity has brought a smile to my face more genuine than I have felt in… well, I am uncertain. 

The pain of your absence is there as well. The smile does not hide that. The pain is ever-present, to borrow a term from you. Even after a year, the pain of missing you is sharp and stabbing.

I am so sorry, Alexander.

Sincerely,

A. Burr

* * *

  
  


_September 2, 1807_

Alexander, 

It is a strange feeling, the notion that I carry with me both the worst of luck and the best. I wake this morning a man found innocent of treason against his country. Jefferson (you recall Jefferson? Hair and wardrobe as loud as his Virginian drawl? You could not stand him, yet you backed him in the presidential race against me?) wanted me hung. It is amusing; I once thought myself as a man who lived on the outskirts of luck, in territory unburdened by fate in either direction. Having my name on Jefferson’s list for so long and getting myself into a position to have him “finally put an end to Aaron Burr” certainly felt unlucky.

Being found innocent and stepping outside, feeling the sun on my face and the breeze on the palms of my hand without wondering if it will be my last time?

This feels lucky, Alexander. This feels like a new day, a new start. How I wish, how badly I wish you were here with me, grinning face pointed toward the sky. 

I forgive you for throwing your name behind Jefferson in the election. I forgive you for it all. The hardest part is admitting to myself that I believe I had forgiven you even before stepping foot on the ground at Weehawken. The hardest part is knowing that you allowed yourself to love the monster who had you step foot on the ground where your Philip caught his mortal wound.

You deserved so much better.

I am so sorry, Alexander.

Sincerely,

A. Burr

* * *

  
  


_July 12, 1811_

Alexander,

You would have thrived in France. I recall the language flowing from your tongue, the way you and Lafayette would converse so casually, putting my knowledge of the language to shame. Everything is different here; the clothes, the architecture, the music. I close my eyes when music from the street comes in through the window and it is so easy to know how you would move with it. You always appeared to just know. You were stunning when you danced. 

There were times, Alexander, when you would accuse me of saying nothing, and I would have nothing to say because you had left me without words. The sight of you dancing. The moments when you would let your hair fall free, and you would frequently chew on your quill absentmindedly, do you remember? Whenever the action left behind a smudge of ink on your lips, those moments too would render me speechless.

I have lost count of precisely how many months I have been in Europe, but I have been in France for near five months now. I share quarters with another American, a painter named John. I have taken to supplying him with funds for his education; he has talent for capturing the world on canvas. If I can put forth good into the world, so be it through the mind and hands of another, I will endeavor to do so however I can. 

Whenever his name escapes my lips I cannot help but to think of Laurens, you know. Of your John. How easy it must have been to love him, the youthful fire of a man he was. You deserved Laurens for an eternity. It tastes like ash in my mouth, the knowledge that you were left with me to love. How much love you must have had to give, Alexander. How fortunate they were (Elizabeth, Laurens, Maria) to have received it so freely.

It has been seven years now, without you. I read your letters so often that my mind moves past the words on the page, so ingrained are your words in my memory, within me. There is a part of me that refuses to come to terms with the concept that the world will never receive more words from you, as constantly as we were once supplied with them. 

I am so sorry, Alexander. 

Sincerely,

A. Burr

* * *

  
  


_January 30, 1813_

Alexander, Alex, please, Alex!

This is my thirtieth day coming to the dock. Her ship set sail a mere seven months after I came back home, back to America, and how soothing and warming it was to have my family by my side again, Alexander! Everyone stopped glaring, and whispering, and it was as though the sight of me brought joy to my children and their families, and disinterest to most everyone else. 

Did you ever get to meet any of your grandchildren? I regret deeply not knowing this about you. If you were so lucky, you already know that it is a different affection, rooted to the bone, deep in the core of you. Holding your grandchild is holding your legacy and the legacy of your child. Oh, Alexander, when I say to you that the death of my grandson Aaron brought me to the depths of despair, I am being true. I am being true. 

Hold him, keep him with you, please. You said you would do anything. Do this, for me.

God, the docks are cold today, though absent of snow. The edges of the water carry ice on the surface. Colder than yesterday, and the day before.

Is my daughter with you, Alex? 

Tear me asunder where I stand, my hand shaking, quill unsteady, paper crooked against the wooden rail along the dock, and now my tears falling unbidden and streaking the ink. They say her ship was lost at sea, but it is not possible. I have lost my Theodosia already, I cannot bear losing our Theodosia. She is what I have of her Mother. My first born, do you remember? We smoked cigars, you and I, to celebrate her entrance into the world. She made me a better man; you said so yourself. She was a gift to me, to you, to this place. 

She cannot be gone, Alexander. She cannot. I will not accept it. I will not bear it. She will return home to me. This life cannot take her from me, too. 

This life keeps taking. It takes, and it takes, and it takes, Alexander; if death has taken my sweet Theodosia, then it would only be just that it take me also. It took you, I took you, and it should have taken me, you should have taken me.

The sun is falling. I will return to the docks tomorrow. I will wait for her.

* * *

  
  


I woke up just now. I dreamed of you. 

I miss you with such enormous gravity that I feel as though it is the only reason I have left.

I did not want this. This is not what was meant to happen. 

Please, Alex. Please.

* * *

  
  


_October 1, 1820_

Alexander, 

Practicing law, while it brings in enough to house and feed me, no longer fills me with the same pleasure that it used to. Perhaps it is because I am older, now, my hair graying and my bones aching with the change of the seasons. The vigour of our youth is not here to support passionate courtroom arguments; rather, every night ends the same, with a glass of wine or perhaps a cigar. Two if I cannot sleep.

I have been somewhat taken in by a family of sorts. The Eden widow and I sit for meals with one another on occasional evenings, and her daughters come and go. When I can spare the change I bring them gifts, and they do not look at me as a man who has blood on his hands. I am reminded of Theodosia at times, of my old life. Working at a practice, dining in the evening, children running amok. 

The fantasy whisps away like smoke when I remember all that I have lost and all that I am trying to replace with this small, quiet surrogate family of mine. You were a surrogate family to me for a time. My home during the day, my constant. If I knew nothing, Alexander, I knew that you would be in the office next door, writing as though there would come a time when you would no longer be allowed. And if I were to stand and go to you, you would not tear your eyes from your paper and quill, but you would smile and you would say “Aaron Burr, Sir! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Between the ink on your lip, the shape of your mouth or the melody of your voice, I would take a moment to relish in the comfort of you, in the warmth of my belly, in the persistent pattern of you, of us. 

Why did you never send me the letters, Alex? If I hold any anger toward you it stems from wondering why you kept them from me, from this pit of longing regret over the fact that you did just that.

You inquired in one of your letters what I would change about you. This is my answer. If I could change one thing, it would not be a matter of who you are, but rather a choice you made. I would go back, I would have you find me before we crossed the Hudson and I would have you force your words into my hands, into my mind, into my heart.

I am so sorry, Alexander.

Yours, 

Aaron

* * *

_June 15, 1828_

Dearest Alexander, 

How scandalous of a thing do you imagine it would have been had I denounced my belief in God whilst campaigning for the presidency? Do you think they would have dipped me in tar and covered me in feathers? Would you have? Would you now?

I would swear off my belief in the entirety of it, the entire fable, if doing so would not mean that I would have to give up on the notion of being in your orbit once again, some day. It is so difficult to believe, is it not, that an almighty caretaker would allow for such suffering? Do I deserve such punishment, to be so alone and with so little, having most who have loved me gone?

I should be grateful. I have reason to be. I have shelter and belongings, after all. The grandmother of the Fairfield children called upon me today, favors in her mouth that sounded of desperation. I often feel like I have nothing; these children had empty bellies, a home with no heat. Do you remember what it felt like during the war? To hunger so badly that we resorted to eating the flesh of our stallions?

When I pawned my last watch and gave the meager earnings to the grandmother, one would think that I was deserving of sainthood with how she cried her thanks. What does this say of the state of things, Alexander? That it should be seen as such a kindness, a man with things to spare putting food in the mouths of babes with nothing?

This world would be better if you were still here. The notion occurs to me often, that I have robbed all people of some unknown future. I have spent years apologizing to you in my mind, in my heart, in the dead of night, in these letters. It strikes me that I should fall to my knees before every person I cross and plead for their forgiveness, as well. 

Would it be enough?

I am so sorry, Alexander.

Yours, 

Aaron

* * *

  
  


_February 17, 1830_

Dearest Alex, 

Time has not been kind to me, but I find that people have been. Would it surprise you to know that I have fallen so greatly that I’ve become dependent on my friends, my former colleagues? You would be fond of them, I believe. Charles, the gentleman who has been assisting me most ever since my apoplexy, strikes such similarity to Hercules Mulligan that sometimes I find it difficult to tear my eyes from him. Surely, if he is here, Lafayette and Laurens are close to follow, and Washington’s Revolutionary set would nary be complete without their Tomcat now, would it?

My memory serves me well and sharply some days, Alexander, and some days it does not. It is my age, or my ailment, or perhaps it is a mercy, the leaking of my memories. I can only think that to be true because it is with certainty that I can say I cannot forget you. I will not; you are seared into me, intrinsic. 

I had speculated, during the incident, that the apoplexy was to be the thing to bring me back to you. Alas, it would appear that I continue to wait. 

I tire quickly. I have so much left to say. I should have talked more. Whispered my love into your hair.

Give my best to my girls, Alexander.

I am so sorry. 

Yours,

Aaron

* * *

  
  


_July 12, 1833_

My Alex, 

I took your life twenty-nine years ago. 

I married my second wife eleven days ago. She does not love me, not in the way I have been loved before. She wed me to increase her renown and has all but said as such, and it does not hurt me, for I do not love her, not in the way I have loved before. She is a fine woman of great fortune, and one may look upon our nuptials as a dually advantageous business transaction.

I do not love her the way that I adored Theodosia. I do not love her the way I ached for you. 

What would it have looked like? Can you imagine it? We would have been outcast, you and I, and our families. There were times when I considered. Considered exactly what, I cannot say, still to this day cannot fathom, but considered I did. Breaking my resolve, perhaps, to claim you in every way my heart had screamed at me to claim you since your crooked smile and incessant voice interrupted my reading on a crisp winter day. 

You were right, my dear Alexander. Not in all things, but in the most important thing of all. I shouldn’t have waited. I shouldn’t have stalled. I knew what it was all for — the studying, the war, the killing — the moment I took my shot. I knew too late.

I do believe this will be my last letter to you. I will keep it with the others, both yours and mine, tucked away within the fold of your emerald jacket. It is never too far from my reach. I wrote Eliza, many years ago, to extend my gratitude for delivering these small parts of you to my door. I have never been able to parse whether she acted of her own volition, or at your prophetic behest. Regardless, they have been treasured, and they are to be buried with me.

I do not think I will be waiting for too much longer.

Love Always,

Aaron

*  
  
  


**September 14, 1836**

Aaron is dying.

He knows this, in a distant way, a way that is impossible to grasp. It’s slippery, this knowledge of death approaching, but he’s sure of it. He thinks it soothing that Staten Island will be his final resting place. It’s fitting, he thinks. Though born in New Jersey, and having set foot on so many lands, in so many states, on multiple continents, New York is where his life truly began. It’s only right. Circular.

Alexander’s faded and tattered green silk jacket is resting at the foot of his bed. He can’t see or reach to touch it, but he knows it’s there. It is always nearby. 

It’s happening now, between one breath and the next; Aaron feels it. He’s thinking of how he shouted “ ** _Wait!_ **” all those years ago, as though he could have pleaded with the bullet to halt, to come back, please, he made a mistake. He’s thinking of many things, all at once. Theodosia (both of them, together and separate), his other children, here and gone. Victories. Lost time. 

Aaron is thinking of a young man in a brown coat snatching his attention. _Pardon me_. 

Aaron dies with Alexander’s name on his lips.

*

“Aaron.”

Aaron opens his eyes. He’s standing. It’s bright where he is; the sun is shining, when moments ago there had been storm clouds. He turns his head to chase the voice and he finds it easier to do than he has in years. 

Alexander’s hair is pulled back in a ponytail, raven black, and the lines around his eyes and mouth that had been there in his last moments are absent. His skin is smooth and he’s fresh-faced, eager, a small smile on his lips and knowledge bubbling behind his eyes, more knowledge than any one person should have. 

“I wrote to you,” Aaron says. 

Alexander’s smile grows. “I know.” 

Aaron’s body cooperates when he reaches out to grasp onto Alexander. Aaron’s hands belong to his younger, sprightlier self, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Alexander’s arms are warm where Aaron’s fingers wrap around them.

“Where are we going?” Aaron asks.

Alexander’s eyes, depths and depths, twinkle. “Anywhere.”

Aaron doesn’t hesitate. 

He takes, and he takes, and he takes. 

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Alexander is laughing, Aaron is smiling, and the contrasting colors of their skin as their fingers interlace is a sight to behold.

“That would be nice.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful art by the beautiful [kemmastan](https://kemmastan.tumblr.com/) ❤️ Both the piece and the artist are the greatest gifts.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/170205563@N04/50741911703/in/dateposted/)


End file.
